


in the alley it ain't that cheap

by mondaycore



Series: the last of the real ones [6]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Action, Alternate universe - Mafia, Feelings Realization, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Themes, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21237017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: They only ever meet up in sleazy pay-per-hour motels, a different one every time, every month or two. Sergio has grown to associate Esteban Ocon with jittery flickering neon signs, the smell of mildew and stale air, water stains, stained linens, the sound of roaches skittering behind drywall. It’s as good as the rat bastard deserves.





	in the alley it ain't that cheap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [untouchableocean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/gifts).

> what’s up friends, we’re back on our Bull Shit. untouchableocean, i’ve been reliably informed that you have “a sergio perez problem,” so this one goes out to you. i beyond appreciate your incoherent yelling on all the silly stuff i write! these are new characters to me, so i hope i did ‘em justice and that you enjoy this!!
> 
> contains the usual “sorry mom” list of sins: gun violence, sexual content, infidelity, and some homophobic language. title by, ya know.

They only ever meet up in sleazy pay-per-hour motels, a different one every time, every month or two. Sergio has grown to associate Esteban Ocon with jittery flickering neon signs, the smell of mildew and stale air, water stains, stained linens, the sound of roaches skittering behind drywall. It’s as good as the rat bastard deserves.

“Well?” Esteban asks, leaning his lanky, gawky self up against the wall opposite the bed where Sergio sits, tense and uncomfortable, the handgun in the waistband of his pants digging into his spine. He flashes a brash, cocky smile, and Sergio grits his teeth. It’s incredible, how every little thing this kid does provokes such a visceral, bone-deep irritation in him. “How’d I do? Was the intel any good?”

“It was fine,” Sergio says flatly, just to wipe that smirk off Esteban’s face.

“Fuck you, my intel got the High Council to confiscate Renault’s entire last shipment. Cost them millions,” Esteban huffs, so predictable, so easily baited, like waving a red flag in front of a dumb bull. “That’s more than _fine_, old man, and you know it.”

He cocks his head and looks challengingly across the room. It’s such a familiar swaggering attitude that for a moment, Sergio feels like the past year hasn’t happened at all. Like they’re still partnered up together and Esteban is still doing irresponsible, immature, _ pendejo _ shit, fucking up Sergio’s hits and meetings and then having the gall to shrug off the blame when confronted about it, _ wasn’t my fault, I didn’t do anything wrong. _ It’d almost been a relief when Lawrence Stroll had come in flashing stacks of investment money, too tempting for Otmar to pass up, despite Stroll exercising his controlling stake in deciding who got to be part of The Family. Lance is a well-behaved kid, competent enough, Canadian-nice, boring as boring gets. That’s _ just _ fine with Sergio.

“It did what it needed to do,” Sergio says, cutting it off simply because he doesn’t have the time or energy to stay here arguing all night. It _ had _ been good intel, and the look on Ricciardo and Hülkenberg’s faces when he’d pulled out the dossier and handed it over to the Council still makes him laugh when he thinks about it. But he’s not going to give Esteban that win. 

“That’s right, it did,” Esteban says smugly. He smiles in glee as something else suddenly comes to mind. “The Council’s really been on a rampage lately, huh? You hear what they did to Verstappen? That stupid fucking _ enculé_, running his mouth in public, bragging about his latest hit. What did he think was going to happen? Moron.”

No love lost between those two, certainly — but Esteban is looking at him like he expects a reply, and if Sergio didn’t know any better, he’d say the kid was fishing for conversation. Like they’re _ friends _or something.

“Are we done here?” Sergio asks, gesturing between them, cutting the line on that particular hook and letting the bait drift away. Esteban’s eyes widen, and then he crosses his arms and looks down, scowling.

“Yeah, we’re done,” Esteban says. He sounds more disappointed in himself than anything else. Sergio viciously stamps down the tiny voice in him calling him an asshole. “So are you gonna give me the money, or are you gonna make me, you know … again.”

Esteban furtively meets his eyes. He licks his lips in a nervy, unconscious motion, and a wrong, dark, dirty heat blossoms in Sergio’s belly.

“You want it, you beg me for it,” Sergio says, with an evenness he doesn’t feel. “Convince me you deserve it.”

Esteban makes an angry noise, and Sergio thinks, as he has every time they’ve done this: this time Esteban _ doesn’t_, and he _ won’t_. This time, he’ll just take the money and go. But no, as he has every time they’ve done this, Esteban _ does_, and he _ does_. He slinks across the room toward Sergio, pushes between his legs, and leans down so they’re face-to-face, bracing his hands on Sergio’s thighs.

“Please, Sergio, let me, I’ve been so good,” he says, lascivious, sardonic, sleepy-eyed in the half-dark, mocking and profane. “_ Por favor, quiero_, _ chíngame, jode mi boca _— ”

“Don’t … _ jueputa, _don’t fucking say shit like that,” Sergio hisses.

“What, am I defiling your mother tongue?” Esteban asks, sliding slowly to his knees on the threadbare carpet and toying with the zipper on Sergio’s pants.

“Yeah, your accent is terrible,” Sergio snaps, if only to maintain some degree of control over the situation.

“English, then, please, come on, Checo, I wanna, let me — ” And this is Sergio’s cue, curtain call for the finale of this circling dance they always do where Sergio pretends he doesn’t want it and Esteban pretends he doesn’t need it.

“Fine. Go ahead, if you want it so badly,” he says. He knows it’s more for his own benefit than Esteban’s, because this weird sick façade of permission begged and acquiesced is what makes it okay with him, drives all thoughts of his sweet, beautiful wife from his mind — 

But, _ ah_, his wife never puts her mouth on him like this, _ there_, nobody’s ever done this to him but Esteban. Because this isn’t something a man does to another man, and it’s not something a proper woman should know. It’s something only whores do, and that’s what Esteban is, a kid off the streets who’d done everything to claw his way up the underworld ranks, reckless, infuriating, mouthy, pushy, crossed every line Sergio’s drawn in the sand and then some, bad fucking news from the moment they’d met. Nobody has _ ever _ gotten under his skin the way Esteban has and drives him crazy the way Esteban does.

So then why does he want _ so badly _ to keep Esteban from going back out there, a spy, a free agent, a backstabber by profession, courting death as he does every time he walks the streets, with every single house out to murder him slowly — _ why _does he want to keep Esteban here between his legs forever, or in his bed, even, safe and close — 

“_Puta madre_, fuck, _ fuck_,” Sergio swears, as much from the force of his revelation as from the delirious heat that sears through him. “Esteban, I’m close, _ voy a — _”

He puts a hand around the back of Esteban’s head, but Esteban doesn’t need to be held in place. He willingly bobs down and swallows as Sergio comes, working his tongue, licking it up, _ Dios_, _ Dios_, _ Dios_.

Esteban settles back on his haunches and looks up at Checo. He never looks that self-satisfied, afterward. It reminds Sergio that, for all his snark and pride and arrogance, Esteban’s still young, still unsure of his place in the world. It’s probably why he lets himself be used the way he does. Tonight, he seems especially troubled by something.

“Checo,” Esteban says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sergio braces for it, whatever it is. “Can I … can I stay here tonight?”

Sergio’s heart skips a beat. His mind reels for a dizzying moment: how does Esteban know, how _ much _ does he know, what did he do, what had given him away — and in his panic, Sergio sneers and says, “gets that lonely being a snitch, yeah?” 

“What?” Esteban asks, very quietly.

“You think your mouth is that good, Esteban? You think I love you now or something?” Sergio says, and it’s the only way he can tell the truth, by cladding it in unbearable cruelty. It’s a _ coup de grâce _ but without the mercy, executing the scapegoat, hanging an innocent man. Sergio feels it physically as a look of deep, genuine hurt flashes in Esteban’s dark eyes. “I have a wife and children at home, and you’re a fucking _ soplón _ whore.”

“Checo, no, I just want — ”

“Shut up, Esteban, I don’t care.” He reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a roll of bills all neatly bound with a rubber band, and throws it to the ground between them like lobbing a hand grenade. “Here’s your money. Take it and leave. Now.” 

“You can do whatever you want to me, just let me stay one night, _ please, _ I’ll be gone in the morning, I promise,” Esteban begs, desperate now, and Sergio shudders with the implication there, the shame of his want congealing stickily in him, turning his stomach in revulsion.

“I’m not a fucking _ maricón_,” Sergio snarls. “Get the fuck out.”

“Checo — ”

Sergio reaches behind his back and draws his gun, levelling it at the man kneeling on the ground. 

“Get out, or I’ll shoot you,” Sergio says, and tracks Esteban as he grabs the money and backs away, hands raised, his eyes pleading and betrayed, all the way out the door of the motel room, into the dark of night. 

\--

The next day is Sunday, and Sergio sits in church with the guilt hanging over him like a guillotine, with the baleful glares of the stained-glass saints towering over him prickling at the back of his neck.

Carola sits in the pew next to him, serene as she always is, but Sergio is almost certain that she knows. She knows, in the same way that she definitely knows what he does for a living, but never brings it up, ever — not in anger, not in disappointment. His whole life he’s been walking a tightrope of plausible deniability over a safety net of lies, and it only makes him angrier and more disgusted at himself that he’s apparently so good at it. 

He tries to focus on the droning of the priest delivering the homily, but keeps getting drawn back to neon lights flickering through slatted window blinds, yellowing wallpaper, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, nimble fingers, a clever tongue. He tries to sing the Psalms but cannot bring himself to, and receives the Communion and feels he might choke on it, and flees with the _ Ave Maria _ tripping off his tongue, under his breath.

The envelope is on the doorstep when he gets home. Plain manila, no postage or return address. He rips it open and slides the single piece of paper out from inside.

It’s like being hit by lightning, or plunged into freezing water — a shock so sudden Sergio can’t tell if it’s hot or cold that runs through his veins. The world around him goes muffled and distant. His hands are shaking, and there’s a ringing in his ears that threatens to overwhelm his senses.

It’s a photo of Esteban, tied to a wall in some small, dark room somewhere. Scrawled across the grainy black-and-white picture are seven gloating words: _ SET A RAT TRAP. CAUGHT A RAT. _It’s signed with a crude diamond symbol that makes it more than clear who is responsible.

_ This is why he asked to stay, because they were onto him and he needed protection, _Sergio suddenly realizes, fighting back the urge to throw up. He closes his eyes but still sees the image burned into his mind — Esteban Ocon, covered in blood, slumped down and splayed out like a dead man.

\--

It takes him a night and a day, but he tracks Esteban down to an abandoned warehouse by the docks.

A search of the aboveground floors turns up nothing, so Sergio leaves his men on standby and wrenches open the door to the basement and enters a subterranean maze of fetid air and puddles of standing water. A descent into hell, he thinks, punishment for the unforgivable things he’d had to do to get here. But he forges ahead regardless, driven on by the unyielding, bloodthirsty need for vengeance, to find and take back what is _ his_.

Faintly, from far above, Sergio hears the revving of engines, the clomping of boots, the rattle of gunfire. _ Puta madre_. Renault have caught up already, and from what panicked shouts he can hear through layers of steel and concrete, his men are outnumbered and don’t stand a chance.

But no matter. He can’t be distracted from this. He creeps deeper through the basement, all noises fading from his consciousness except his own footsteps and heavy breathing. Doubt settles in as he kicks down door after door after door to empty room after empty room — maybe the intel was bad, maybe Esteban isn’t here at all and maybe he’d been led into a trap — 

Until he shoulders open one final door to a hot, airless room, loud with the droning of machines, and there he is. _ There he is_.

“Esteban,” Sergio breathes. And the feeling that pierces through him when Esteban stirs weakly and turns toward him — it’s like nothing he’s ever felt, a shot of euphoria straight to the brainstem, relief so strong it nearly blinds him. 

“Checo?” Esteban murmurs.

“Yeah, Esteban, it's me, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Sergio says, and he wishes he could say more, but they’re running out of time as it is. He cuts the ropes binding Esteban to the wall, notes with anger how his wrists are chafed bloody, how his clothes are stiff with blood and his eyes are dazed, unfocused. “Can you walk?”

“What — what’s it look like, old man,” Esteban spits out, irreverent as always, and Sergio thinks he might love him, just for that — well, there it is, the admittance he can’t take back, was it really that simple? — and heaves Esteban bodily across his shoulders. Together, they stagger toward the door of the room and down the hallway beyond, back the way he’d come.

“You’re fucking heavy,” Sergio says, falling back into their old spiteful ways because it’s easy, because he’s afraid of what else he might say.

“No, you’re just short,” Esteban snipes back, breathing hard through the incredible amount of pain he must be in. 

“This way, over here,” Sergio says, stifling a laugh as he guides them around a corner.

He moves before he knows why, shoves Esteban behind him, body-shielding him, and takes the bullet to the arm, stumbling back to hit the wall. Just a graze, but it’s still a shock, and it still hurts like hell.

“_Hola_, Checo,” says Daniel Ricciardo, cheerily mocking. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“_Hijo de puta, _” Sergio swears, gritting his teeth against what feels like a white-hot knife being plunged into his arm, and grabs Esteban and half-runs, half-lurches in the opposite direction.

“Come on, don’t talk about my mom like that,” Daniel says, advancing steadily down the hall toward him. Sergio hears him reload his weapon — dives out of the way as the bullet pings off an exposed pipe just above him — and he reloads again, gaining on them, implacable. “Don’t take this the wrong way, _ amigos_. If it were up to me, I’d let it slide. But Nico, he’s taking this personally, for some reason. I can’t imagine why, _ Esteban. _”

“Checo, it’s fine,” Esteban pants, “just leave me here, it’s okay.”

“You know, man, I appreciate your methods. Play dirty, stay fair. I respect that. But Nico, he wants this rodent problem taken care of, and I’m just being a good friend, yeah?”

Sergio closes his eyes, says a fervent prayer to Saint Christopher the Protector, and crouches down and gently settles Esteban against the wall. 

“_Lo siento, _Esteban, I’m so sorry,” Sergio says, and takes off running.

“Oh, Checo, that’s cold,” Daniel says, the grin evident in his voice, and chases after him.

Sergio takes corner after corner, blind, desperate, hunted, a rat scrabbling in a maze, a cockroach skittering away from the light, hoping and praying he won’t run out of hallway. He doesn't, but his body starts lagging, his lungs and muscles screaming in protest, the exhaustion and blood loss starting to get to him. It’s like the nightmares he has sometimes, where he keeps running and running without going anywhere at all, the monster behind slowly inching up on him — Daniel Ricciardo right behind him, reaching out, grabbing —

With one last effort, Sergio jukes left, flings himself down a side corridor, and Daniel swears and stumbles, overshooting it — and without second thought, Sergio draws his gun with his good hand, lunges forward around the corner and shoots Daniel in the leg.

“Mother_fucker! _” Daniel howls, tumbling down heavily, his weapon clattering away across the ground. He scrambles for it but Sergio doesn’t stick around for the retaliation, whips back around and sprints in the other direction, retracing his steps until he gets back to where Esteban is still propped against the wall, head tilted back.

“Checo — ” he says, startled. 

“Come on, up, up, _ vamos_,” Sergio says, roughly heaving Esteban up again. “I saw a service door this way, come on.”

It’s only a short distance away, and mercifully the door opens when Sergio turns the handle and throws his weight against it. They tumble out onto a embankment about a hundred yards from the warehouse, ankle-deep in sludge, water from the nearby river lapping at their feet. The night lights up intermittently with bursts of muzzle flash — from the sounds of it, Lance’s men have arrived as reinforcements, and they’re winning after all. 

Sergio draws breath after breath of the cold night air, clutching Esteban tightly against him, murmuring soothing nonsense like he would to his child waking up from a bad dream, _ estás bien, estás bien, estás a salvo conmigo, se acabó, estás bien. _

\--

It’s nightfall again, and it’s another motel room again — this time at an establishment so seedy that the dead-eyed woman at the front desk barely blinks at the two men, both covered in grime and blood, stumbling in together and demanding a room for the night.

Esteban can barely keep himself upright, so Sergio shoves him into the shower and climbs into the tiny cubicle with him. He scrubs the both of them down with cheap motel soap, too exhausted to feel awkward about it or to say anything, until Esteban squirms out of his grip and leans back against the wall, almost like he's cowering away.

“Thank you for, for not just,” he says, struggling for words. He's been crying, Sergio realizes, he'd just hidden it under the spray of the shower. "I really thought you were going to leave me there."

"Of course I was going to come back for you," Sergio says, despondently. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't?"

Esteban makes a humorless sound.

“Checo, you hate me — you hate me so much, I thought — ”

God, Sergio could laugh. _How _could Esteban ever think that? Couldn't he _see_, didn't he _know —_

“Esteban, _no_,” Sergio says, and draws him down and kisses him, hard and hungry, the only way to prove how _ wrong _Esteban is, because there are no words in any language that would suffice otherwise. Esteban whimpers, shocked and disbelieving. Sergio pushes in harder, pins him against the wall and holds him down, and when he presses in, chest-to-chest, Esteban finally relaxes under him and gives himself over.

It should scare him, how easily he commits an act that no amount of_ Ave Marias _ can atone for. But he’s already committed so many mortal sins tonight on Esteban’s behalf, and this one is by far the most joyful and ecstatic among them.

It would seem he cares more for Esteban than he does about eternal damnation. The thought ought to scare him — and maybe it will, come morning. These things always seem easier to stomach in the dark. But morning is a long, long way away, and for now the water pelts down upon them, sluicing down the drain, dirty and tinged with pink, washing away everything except the silent, reverent slide of skin on skin.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sure my old spanish teachers are proud that i'm applying what i learned. that said, i'm a dumb ol' amerikanski and a heathen at that, so if someone spots incorrect use of spanish and/or incorrect depictions of catholicism, do holler!
> 
> the usual: this is purely fiction, please do not involve the real world or real people in this, and please don’t link this out to other platforms without asking first. thanks as always to you incredible readers, and hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
